My father used to light up when he was foolish. The twinkle in his blue eyes preceded a goofy grin and silent, shaking shoulders. Then a belly laugh like Santa’s, but a high pitched he he he rather than a ho ho ho.
The foolishness may have been something ridiculous like the time he drove his grey Datsun truck up the concrete stairs to the community center where he was a Boy Scout leader. Or like coming home from the dance with Mom’s curly, brown wig perched atop his black hair.
Sometimes the foolishness manifested while he was eating. He could inhale a slice of watermelon in one big, messy slurp. Once, when I was a little girl, he ordered a big box of frozen lobsters from Newfoundland. He and I used to snack on them in the evenings while on the couch watching TV. We’d suck every bit of sweet meat from the claws, tail, and little red legs. In my mind’s eye, I can see a lobster’s head with its tiny black eyes and antennae sticking out of my dad’s pursed lips like it was trying to escape into the auburn beard-nest. Sometimes I would join in the foolishness and we would look at each other and laugh with our eyes, shoulders, and bellies. There was always the light, the twinkle.
Now, he’s a prisoner of confusion.
Recently, I was with him in Newfoundland. He generously handed over his keys so my son and I could take his car on a day trip to Ferryland. Only they weren’t his car keys but his house and mail key. We already had his car key. My heart sank. Later, he was distraught because he thought someone stole his car. He was waiting at the door when we returned.
“Is that my car?”
“Yes, Dad. We took it to Ferryland today.”
“B’y, I thought someone stole it. I looked up the hill and someone was driving my car away.”
“It’s okay Dad, we brought it back.”
Five minutes later, “I looked up the hill and someone was driving my car away.” Next, he’s outside trying to open the car doors with the house key, desperately peering in the windows. “Something is wrong with my car. I can’t get it open.” Raw and justified agitation.
My sadness was tempered by my need to console him. “It’s okay Dad, we’ll figure it out. Supper’s ready.”
Plates of homemade macaroni and cheese and saucy ribs lovingly prepared by his wife, Myrna, awaited us. Myrna put her hands together and bowed her head. “Let’s pray.” My dad lifted up his plate. Lifted it right up to his white-bearded face and looked at me with that beautiful, blue twinkle. Then he tilted his face forward and began eating like a hungry dog. Instinctively and immediately, I lowered my face to my plate and turned my head so we could see each other. I stuck out my tongue and lapped at my saucy ribs. And there we were, being foolish together. I was his little girl and he was my dad as our eyes, shoulders and bellies laughed.
Being foolish never felt so good or so bad.
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